e young fellow who had now been picked up, covered
with blood, in the depths of that abyss. Beneath the gust of horror
which chilled him, Morange could only find these words: "Well, madame,
poor Blaise came just behind you and broke his skull."

Her demeanor was perfect; her hands quivered as she raised them, and it
was in a halting voice that she exclaimed: "Good Lord! good Lord, what a
frightful misfortune."

But at that moment an uproar arose through the house. The drawing-room
door had remained open, and the voices and footsteps of a number of
people drew nearer, became each moment more distinct. Orders were being
given on the stairs, men were straining and drawing breath, there were
all the signs of the approach of some cumbrous burden, carried as gently
as possible.

"What! is he being brought up here to me?" exclaimed Constance turning
pale, and her involuntary cry would have sufficed to enlighten the
accountant had he needed it. "He is being brought to me here!"

It was not Morange who answered; he was stupefied by the blow. But
Beauchene abruptly appeared preceding the body, and he likewise was
livid and beside himself, to such a degree did this sudden visit of
death thrill him with fear, in his need of happy life.

"Morange will have told you of the frightful catastrophe, my dear," said
he. "Fortunately Denis was there, for the question of responsibility
towards his family. And it was Denis, too, who, just as we were about
to carry the poor fellow home to the pavilion, opposed it, saying that,
given his wife's condition, we should kill her if we carried him to her
in this dying state. And so the only course was to bring him here, was
it not?"

Then he quitted his wife with a gesture of bewilderment, and returned
to the landing, where one could hear him repeating in a quivering voice:
"Gently, gently, take care of the balusters."

The lugubrious train entered the drawing-room. Blaise had been laid on
a stretcher provided with a mattress. Denis, as pale as linen, followed,
supporting the pillow on which rested his brother's head. A little
streamlet of blood coursed over the dying man's brow, his eyes were
closed. And four factory hands held the shafts of the stretcher. Their
heavy shoes crushed down the carpet, and fragile articles of furniture
were thrust aside anyhow to open a passage for this invasion of horror
and of fright.

Amid his bewilderment, an idea occurred to Beauchene, who continued to
di